


destruction, desolation, redemption

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: (Non Graphic), Bodily Fluids, Canonical Character Death, Catholic Guilt, Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Henry V is a high functioning disaster, Implied Relationships, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: When they came to Bois de Vincennes, Henry made them stop and let him out of the litter. He knew once they went inside, they would take him to the royal chamber and he would not leave it alive.August 1422.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	destruction, desolation, redemption

**August 1422**

When they came to Bois de Vincennes, Henry made them stop and let him out of the litter. He could not stand for long but he wanted to see the clear sky and the world holding still in the heat, and feel the ground beneath his feet, the sun scorching his skin and burning into his eyes. He knew once they went inside, they would take him to the royal chamber and he would not leave it alive.

He trembled, clasped a guard’s shoulder to steady himself and gain a little more time. Already, his doctors were moving towards him, faces worried. _It’s the heat, I’m fine,_ he could say, _leave me to see the sun one last time._ A part of him wondered why they wanted to stretch the thread of his fraying life out as far as it could go. If he died where he stood, in the sun and free air, he would die content.

But then he remembered his son who he had never seen. Each day he lived was another day for his son to grow older in ignorance of the crown and its weight. There was his last will and testament too, which had been written before his son was born and now had to be updated and amended. And there were his brothers – one in France, one in England – and the future to consider. His life would have to go on for as long as possible.

He closed his eyes against the blazing light, felt his tongue lie heavy and cracked in his mouth and tears burn in his eyes. He wanted to put the crown down, he wanted to rest.

‘Here,’ a doctor said. ‘It will be better once you are inside. Lie down now.’

He wondered what that meant, _it will be better._ He knew, and had known for a long time, that he was dying. Surely the doctor didn’t mean to suggest he would recover. Still, he let the man take him by the arms and make his body lie on the litter. The pain was breathtaking, as if his whole body was being submerged in flames, and his clothes were wet with sweat. His throat ached, his belly twisted. He did not scream or moan, though a tear sneaked out of his eye and ran down the side of his nose. It was not the worst pain he had ever endured.

The curtains were drawn around him, the litter lurched forward. He would not, he realised, ever see the sun or stars ever again.

*

The room was the same as it had always been. The walls were panelled with oak and hung with tapestries, the high, vaulted ceiling rose from a singular, central pillar, the ribs and vaults painted blue and decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. The bed was beneath a canopy of red silk hangings, embroidered with the leopards of England. Despite the heat, a fire was already burning in the hearth.

They moved him from the litter to the bed, washed him and left him panting in a clean shirt, his soiled clothes taken away. They let him sip at wine and watched in case he brought it up again, which he duly did. One of the surgeons took his arm, rolled back the sleeve and ran his fingers over the numerous scars littering the inside of his elbow, trying to find where the vein could be cut.

‘Why is there a fire?’ Henry asked. ‘Is it not hot enough?’

_Will I not be burning soon enough? Am I not burning now?_

There was a murmured discussion. The surgeon paid it no heed, cut the vein and they both watched as crimson blood dripped into the bowl. Someone said the fire kept away the _miasma_ that might make him sicken.

‘I think,’ Henry said, ‘it is too late to be worrying about that.’

There was more discussion he was not meant to hear. Once, he would’ve sharpened his ears and listened to all that was said but instead he watched his blood fall. Someone asked if he wished for the fire to be extinguished.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think that would be good.’

They sent for a servant to put out the fire and moved closer. They asked him if he would send for his brother of Bedford or for the Duke of Exeter and Earl of Warwick.

‘They are needed elsewhere,’ he said.

The doctors retreated, leaving him with the surgeon. The surgeon pressed his thumb to the cut until the blood stopped and then bandaged his arm before leaving. A servant came and broke apart the fire, poured water on it that hissed and steamed, and then began to scrape it out.

Henry turned onto his side, curled around himself, his arm outstretched because the cut was throbbing. He wanted to sleep but he could not sleep, he could only go on.

*

He was not afraid of his own death; he had strayed too close to it too many times and lost too many people for it to still hold fear for him. He believed in the Resurrection and the life of the world to come _._ But it was not that he was brave or fearless in his faith, only that he didn’t particularly care. There was still a part of him who was still the child who had wanted to die if it meant he would be with his mother again. That was no longer possible. She had been good, so good that for a while he had deluded himself into thinking that she would be a saint, and he was sunk in sin without hope of salvation or cure.

Awaiting him was the rain of fire and brimstone, a hell where his skin would be flayed off piece by piece, bone torn from bone, muscles cut, nerves pierced, skull broken and drilled into fragments. He would be destroyed, he would be desolated, he would not be redeemed.

Still, he held no fear of it. It was the punishment he deserved and had accepted years ago, and it was an end – _his_ end.

‘No more,’ he said, murmured it to himself. ‘No more dying, only death.’

One of the doctors frowned at him, asked him a question. He shook his head.

‘I think he’s—’ the doctor said.

‘I’ve not lost my mind,’ he said.

‘Tell me what day it is then,’ the doctor said. ‘And where you are.’

‘We are in Bois de Vincennes,’ he said. ‘In the royal apartments. The day does not matter because none of you tell me what the day is and you keep the windows shuttered so I cannot even tell if it is day or night.’

The doctor’s frown deepened but nothing more was said.

*

Friar Netter, his confessor, came and shrived him. The communion wafer was placed on his tongue and he swallowed it. Netter read from the Bible and then from _The Voyages of Godfrey de Bouillon_. He stretched out his body in the bed, felt the pain in his miserable, cramping belly as if he had swallowed a blade. His doctors no longer liked to give him any food except broth and then only when he complained. They did not like to give him medicines either, saying they were frightened it would kill him, that they feared his bowels would be in such turmoil they would twist themselves into a fatal paroxysm. He did not argue; he understood that it was his duty to stay alive for as long as possible.

He only wished it were more bearable.

‘Are you sure,’ Netter said, pausing the end of the page, ‘that you do not want his grace, the Duke of Bedford recalled?’

‘He must relieve Cosne,’ he said.

Netter nodded and turned the page.

‘I wanted to go to Jerusalem,’ Henry said. ‘To return it to Christian hands. If I united England and France, it would be possible.’

‘It is a noble thought,’ Netter said.

‘My father went there,’ he said. ‘All he ever did afterwards was talk about how he wished to return. He never did. Now I never shall go myself.’

Netter said nothing. Henry wondered if he should not speak so, making his death a certainty, but his body overtook him, shuddering and convulsing. He tried to pull himself up, felt firm hands under his armpits, lifting him as he vomited, spitting bile and the host up on himself.

*

He could not sleep, he could not eat. His doctors contented themselves with burning herbs and hanging meadowsweet in bunches around his bed. They rubbed salves and oils into his skin, studied his urine and what waste his bowels could produce, muttered grim portents amongst themselves and then left him alone. Netter shrived him each morning, prayed with him but did not give him the Eucharist again.

Henry wished for someone else to counsel him; Netter knew him too well and Henry kept his words bitten back. He remembered the anchorite who he had prayed with after his father had died and wished for him but he had died some years ago. Henry wished Courtenay were there, ready to mock him – gently! – for his dramatics and fits of melancholia.

‘Don’t you think,’ Courtenay would say, ‘that it is very presumptuous of you to assume to know the measure of your soul? To assume to know how the Lord will treat with you?’

He imagined the anchorite would say the same thing except it would not sound anywhere near as fond. But the words didn’t sound quite right for Courtenay, they were too solemn.

He wished that the disease had broken his mind and let him hallucinate. He wished his mind would conjure the dead he had loved before him and would let him speak to them one last time.

*

He was restless. He hated the close air of his room. He could see, faintly, the sun’s light forcing its way past the shuttered window and he managed to pull himself out of the bed, walking on unsteady feet across the room to press his hand against the latch. His vision swam, the room spun around him. He closed his eyes and breathed in heavily, trying to find the strength to go on. If he opened the latch, he could see the sun. If he made it back to bed, no one would know his folly.

He wanted to do neither.

Above all, he wanted to go home to Kenilworth but that was impossible. He could not walk or ride – though he had tried – and Kenilworth was across the sea, three hundred or so miles away. His doctors would never countenance it, no matter what threats he could think to heap on their heads, and his body would not endure it, no matter how he tried to master it. But Kenilworth was his _home._

He wanted to be sailing on the mere, the northern wind cooling the summer heat, he wanted to feast in its halls, to show Catherine the places he and his brothers had once played. He wanted Courtenay to walk him around the gardens and call him _Hal,_ making him laugh even though it hurt to laugh. He wanted to hear his mother’s voice, calling to him, _Harry, Harry, Harry._

Those parts of him were dead already. It was only Henry, the fifth of that name, that remained. Henry was a bad man but a good king, a great king. Henry, Hal and Harry would all rot in hell and yet Henry would be remembered as the perfect king. He had given up Harry and Hal, his soul and his names, to make it so.

His fingers slid over the latch, could not find the strength to undo it. The room was grey and dark, too hot, and the walls closed around him.

*

There was a candle burning on the table beside his bed. He could see the shapes of jars and pots, smell their astringent scent. He could feel shit on his legs and buttocks, or what was the closest to shit his body could still make, black and tarry. A doctor pressed a wet cloth to his forehead.

‘You gave us a fright,’ he said, loudly as if talking to an idiot.

Henry could not speak. He felt his breath caught in his chest, the effort involved in dragging up his throat and out through his mouth. He could taste blood in his mouth, the inside of his cheek tender as if he had bitten it. They fed him a little wine, stroked his sweat-soaked hair as if he was a dog.

He wanted to say, _I wish I were dead._

He wanted to say, _you left me in my own shit again._

He wanted to say, _tell me I am forgiven, even though I don’t deserve it._

But he still could not speak.

*

Cosne, the doctors said, had been relieved and was safe now so John could be spared. They did not tell him that they had sent for John when they had found him on the floor by the window but he knew they had done so. He frightened them too much for things to go on as they had.

John came in, body scrubbed raw, and Henry pretended to be asleep to avoid embarrassing them both. He lay still on the bed, his hands clasping the crucifix, and was grateful they had washed him before John came and that the air was less foul. He opened his eyes as John moved closer to the bed.

‘John,’ he said.

‘Harry,’ John said, shuddering the word out.

So he needed to be strong, he needed to tell John what to do. Good John, dependable John – who cared but never too much – needed Henry to guide him through this, needed to be given a task to complete and feel useful with. He managed to push himself up in the bed, held out his hands to John and felt the shocking heat of John’s fingers against his palms.

‘You will need to look after Humphrey.’

John’s face twitched; he was displeased – he’d always resented Humphrey’s childhood illnesses, had always been jealous of Humphrey. Harry smiled.

‘And tell him to look after you,’ Henry said.

John nodded, clearing his throat.

‘Exeter and Warwick should be summoned,’ Henry said. ‘If they can be spared.’

‘Right,’ John said, blinking and not looking like he understood.

‘There need to be new codicils written,’ he said. ‘Things must be planned. I have been thinking about this and I know what to do. We must work to protect my son.’

‘Yes,’ John said.

Then he broke and turned away, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. Henry reached out and touched his back, felt the force of John’s grief heaving through his body.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry. Why are you crying?’

‘You’re dying,’ John said. ‘Of course I’m crying.’

‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘It’ll be alright, John. You’ll see.’

‘Shut up,’ John said. ‘Shut up. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to lie there and pretend that it’s just an inconvenience, you dying—’

‘No.’

‘—you’ve ruined everything!’

But that was what he always did. He was not a good man. He destroyed, he ruined. How many lives had he ended? How much blood was on his hands? Meaux. Rouen. Agincourt. Shrewsbury. Thomas. Oldcastle. York. Courtenay. Scrope. Cambridge. Badby. Blanche. Richard. He had not saved any of them. He had not looked back, could not. There was no way he could have gone on if he did.

‘I know,’ Henry said.

‘No,’ John said. ‘You don’t. You never have.’

He turned back to Henry, his face blotchy and red, wet with tears.

‘I want you to care,’ John said. ‘Just once. You need to care. You’re _dying._ ’

‘I’ve been dying for a long time.’

John made a high-pitched sound of rage that was almost funny and slapped Henry, his hand cracking against the side of his face. It hurt more than it should have.

‘Sorry,’ John said. ‘Sorry. Christ, are you alright?’

Henry laughed, if only because John looked so very sorry and worried. His breath caught in his throat, his lungs wheezed, and he fell back against the pillows. John fussed and hovered, taking a few steps towards the door as if he wanted to summon a doctor before he changed his mind.

‘Treason,’ Henry managed to get out with a sob of laughter. ‘Treason. I would’ve expected it from Thomas, not _you_.’

‘Harry.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But you’ll survive.’

‘That’s not the point,’ John said.

John sat down on the edge of the bed, miserable and nervous, and then took Henry’s hand.

‘You’ve gotten too thin,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’

‘You shouldn’t apologise,’ John said.

He said nothing, knowing John either meant, _you’re dying, you don’t have to say sorry_ and _it’s unlike you to apologise._ He smiled and shook his head, reached out and took John’s face within his hands, drew him down and kissed him.

‘Anyway,’ John said after a moment, his eyes still wet. ‘Your will?’

*

John took over reading _The Voyages of Godfrey de Bouillon_ , which gave him something to do. Henry told him about his plan of uniting England and France to liberate Jerusalem. John scrubbed at his face.

‘It would go, you mean?’ John said. ‘Never-ending? You would not be satisfied?’

Henry blinked and wondered. He did not want to be King of England or King of France or even King of Jerusalem. He had wanted to be happy once but more than that, he wanted to be good.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I would have liked, I think, to be an anchorite.’

‘Oh Harry,’ John said, sounding like their mother had when Henry had confessed to her of feeling sad for no good reason. ‘Harry.’

He closed his eyes, pretended to sleep and John lapsed into silence. Then he started crying again and Henry could not endure it. He pulled himself up, reached out and held John, stroked his hair. He could remember doing the same thing when they were children – always, he had been the one to soothe his brothers’ tempers and upsets. One day soon, he thought, they would no longer have him and would have to find some way to comfort themselves.

‘It will be alright,’ he said. ‘We’ve made good plans. All will be well.’

‘And for you?’ John said. ‘Will it be alright for you?’

He made himself smile and made himself lie.

*

He remembered, nine years ago, sitting in endless vigils by his father’s bedside, waiting for him to die, praying that it would be over soon. He still didn’t understand his father, still didn’t know if it was true that his father had loved him after all. He had hated waiting, hated being made to sit and do nothing but wait. His father had been in a bad way, not capable of speaking much – at least, not when Henry was there – and Henry had still felt the unblunted edges of his resentment.

‘You don’t have to stay,’ he told John.

‘Where should I go?’

‘Wherever it pleases you best.’

John frowned at him, severe and exasperated, as he often looked when Humphrey was being difficult about something.

‘Hunting?’ Henry suggested. ‘Though I suppose it is too hot for hunting.’

‘I would rather remain here,’ John said.

‘It will not be nice,’ Henry said. ‘It stinks in here. They think I don’t realise it but I do. _I_ stink of shit, John, and I soil myself. You don’t have to endure it.’

‘Harry,’ John said. ‘I don’t care. Well.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Providing I don’t have to clean you myself, that is.’

Henry stared at him and laughed, laughed until he was breathless and gasping and John was hovering over him, helping him sit up so it was easier to breathe. He leant against John’s shoulder, eyes wet with tears, and was glad, selfishly glad, that John was there.

*

Courtenay had told him once, _people always talk about forgiveness as though it means only forgiving the people who wronged you. But you need to know if you can forgive yourself._ Courtenay had also told him not to die like he had died but Henry was dying in the exact same way and soon, their bones would both be lying in the shrine of Edward the Confessor. It was the only comfort he allowed himself.

He stared up at the canopy around his bed. The doctor said it was mid-morning but the colours seemed dull, even considering the darkness of the room. He blinked and it seemed to be darker. He tried to remember if there was anything else he had to do. They had written the codicils for his will, he had spoken to them, he had been shriven and received extreme unction, and now they sang psalms and prayed around his bed.

Once, Courtenay had asked him, _do you love yourself?_

He’d laughed, told Courtenay to be quiet and it didn’t matter, he didn’t have to answer questions like that.

 _But it should matter,_ Courtenay had said.

At Kenilworth, a time long ago, his mother had said, _I didn’t know until I held you that you could love something so much you’d think it was worth emptying oceans for._

He still wanted to lose his mind. He wanted her to be there, ready to hold him and dry his tears and tell him again how much she loved him and had always loved him. He wanted her to meet Courtenay, and the two of them to take his hands and lead him to salvation.

*

Could he do it? Could he be saved?

He did not deserve it.

He knew this. He accepted this. But he wanted salvation, he wanted purification. He wanted it even though he knew it would hurt. A white flame would burn away his sins, sand and salt scouring a wound clean. It would hurt to be forgiven. It would hurt more to be seen for what he was and still be loved and forgiven.

He did not deserve it. He could not make amends. He could crawl on his knees through broken knives and it would mean nothing. His sins were to be carried around on his back for all eternity, his heart would remain cracked and crazed. He was not a good man but he had wanted to be one once. Did that matter?

Did it mean something, to know with all his heart that he had been done so much wrong and that he was sorry and he wanted to be saved? Did that make it possible?

He would be destroyed, he would be desolated. Could he be redeemed?

He wanted to be redeemed, he wanted it so very badly.

*

He wanted no more charges on his conscience. He ordered the reversal of the attainder on Henry, Lord Scrope of Masham’s heirs and ordered that Joanna of Navarre, his father’s second wife, be released and restored to her status. He had acted badly towards them and these orders could not erase the hurt and harm he had done but they would begin to heal it.

He gave them instructions on what was to come and what they should do. It was hard; he could not begin to guess at the future, much less foresee all ends. But he tried to guide them through the years when he would be mouldering in his tomb and his son would be too young to understand what was asked of him.

 _His son._ Henry could not quite fathom the fact that he had a son. Catherine had not been able to tell him much; she had been overwhelmed when he asked about their son. Her eyes had grown wide and she had giggled nervously, saying _oh, oh, he’s a dear, a little dear_ , and making incomprehensible gestures with her fluttering hands. He had wanted to kiss her, to hold her close to him, but had feared she would want more from him, more than he could give. John had been more sober but just as unforthcoming about the baby.

‘Do you want us to summon the queen?’ a doctor said, washing Henry’s face and arms with lavender-scented water.

‘No,’ Henry said.

If her father were mad or dying or dead, she would still have her mother to comfort her. And Catherine should not see him as he was. She should be left of the memory of him as he had been when he had been strong and capable.

He closed his eyes, winced as the doctor dragged the cloth over his elbow. The last incision the surgeon had made to bleed him was healing slowly, the skin around it inflamed and sore. The surgeon refused to bleed him again. They were all waiting for him to die, still trying to stretch his life’s thread out but it was fraying and weak.

Netter came, took his confession and prayed. Henry listened to John following steadfastly through the prayers, the hitch in John’s voice as he fought back tears. He reached out, laid his hands over John’s. The room was so dark.

*

He was burning. His skin was shrivelling, blistering. A tall, thin man with black, tattered wings and a bleeding hole in his cheek leant over him, leering. Henry’s chest was too tight, his lungs were full of ash and smoke.

‘Here shall thee reside,’ the thin man said.

Henry could not speak, could not breathe. He shook his head frantically, the shadows on the walls twisting.

‘Here shall thee be punished,’ the man said. ‘The rain of fire and brimstone waits. Here is the knife that shall flay thy skin from thy flesh, here is the hammer that shall break thy bones, here is the drill that shall pierce thy skull, here are the teeth that shall devour thy flesh.’

As he spoke, the man held up his tools. A black knife, dripping with gore, a silver hammer, a molten steel drill, and blood-stained teeth. The man’s wings spread, black against the red sky. Ash was caught in the howling winds.

‘Here shall thee dwell forevermore,’ the man said. ‘Here shall thee be destroyed and desolated. This is thy portion.’

He whimpered. _Mary, help,_ he thought, _Mary, help._

And he heard his mother’s voice, clear and sweet as a river in an untouched forest. He twisted his head, saw her standing behind him, dressed in blue and dark hair bound beneath a veil and fillet.

‘He lies,’ she said. ‘He lies. Your portion is with the Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Thou liest,’ Henry said. ‘Thou liest. My portion is with the Lord Jesus Christ.’

*

John was staring at him, his face pale. When Henry lifted his head, he could feel how his sweat had soaked his hair and the pillow beneath him. John reached out, stroking Henry’s face and laying a damp cloth over his brow. They were singing psalms again. Henry closed his eyes, clasped the crucifix as tightly as he could but his fingers felt numb and cold and they would not hold the crucifix.

‘It won’t be long,’ a doctor said.

‘How long?’ John said.

‘Hours,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps only two.’

Henry blinked. John’s expression sharpened, turned to him.

‘Harry?’ he said. ‘You understand?’

He managed a nod. John’s smile was small, watery and he reached out, touching his fingers to Henry’s cheek, before turning away, muffling sobs into his hands. Henry tried to reach him, tried to be the brother he had always been, the one who comforted and protected his younger siblings, but his body would not obey him except for a twitch in his arm.

‘John.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ John said.

‘Come here.’

He was afraid. He did not want to be afraid but he was. John turned back, sniffling, and he seemed to understand. He held Henry in his arms, helped him clasp the crucifix between his hands.

‘The hour?’

‘After midnight,’ John said. His voice was shaky. ‘It’s alright, Harry. You can rest. You can rest now.’

There were more prayers, more psalms were sung. John stroked his hair and washed his face. Henry tried to follow along with the psalms, though his voice was too quiet.

_Be Thou to me a rock of refuge, even a fortress of defence, to save me._  
_For Thou art my rock and my fortress;_  
_Therefore for Thy name’s sake lead me and guide me._  
_Bring me forth out of the net that they have hidden for me;_  
_For Thou art my stronghold._  
_Into Thy hand I commit my spirit;_  
_Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord…_  


Henry closed his eyes. He was tired and afraid but John was with him, he was not alone, and he knew. He would be destroyed, he would be desolated but he would also be redeemed. His lips curved in a smile. He could hear the opening notes of his mother’s _Sanctus,_ her voice calling for him. He could see Courtenay on the path ahead of him, his blazing smile. And beyond them, beyond them—

**Author's Note:**

> In the early hours of 31 August 1422, probably between two and three o'clock, Henry V died at Bois de Vincennes, probably in the king's chambers in the donjon tower which still exists today. Amongst those present were his brother, John, Duke of Bedford, his confessor, Thomas Netter, the Duke of Exeter and the Earl of Warwick. Catherine de Valois is not mentioned as being present and it is generally assumed she remained with her parents at Senlis. Her father died less than two months later. Henry's death was most likely caused by a severe intestinal condition, possibly dysentery, although contemporary chroniclers also suggest smallpox, leprosy, erysipelas or a fistula. More recently, it has been suggested that he had some form of bowel cancer. 
> 
> One account has Henry, speaking "boldly" as if to an "evil spirit", cry out, "thou liest! Thou liest! My portion is with the Lord Jesus Christ." His final words, however, were said to be "into thy hands, Lord..." or "in thy hands, O Lord, thou has redeemed my end", which recalls Psalm 31:5. Psalm 31 is quoted in the last scene.
> 
> You can see photos of Bois de Vincennes and the room where Henry died [here](https://www.medieval.eu/chateau-de-vincennes/).
> 
>  _The Chronicles of Jerusalem and the Voyages of Godfrey de Bouillon_ was a book we know Henry borrowed from his aunt, Joan Beaufort, and was in his possession at the time of his death. E. Carleton Williams, in her biography of John, Duke of Bedford, suggests it may have been at his bedside. Henry reportedly expressed the desire to travel to Jerusalem and reclaim it for Christianity on his deathbed in his final hours. I placed it earlier to better space out the story and believe it is possible Henry spoke of his desire privately.


End file.
